


slow dancing in the dark

by MiniInfinity



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Artists, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Light Angst, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, inspired by their outfits at gda
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:14:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22206949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiniInfinity/pseuds/MiniInfinity
Summary: Mingyu sneaks into a train on its way to an extravagant masquerade party in Seoul. In the one week he has between now and Seoul, he meets Wonwoo, the son of the man who owns the rails.
Relationships: Jeon Wonwoo/Kim Mingyu
Comments: 14
Kudos: 26





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> as mentioned so in the tags, this is inspired by their outfits and masks at the golden disc awards. they looked amazing :')) this started off with with a tiny idea on my [twitter](https://twitter.com/_miniinfinity/status/1214088934080204802?s=20) but it got too long as a thread for my liking so i made it into a fic instead sdlkfj
> 
> **warnings** will show up in the notes whenever appropriate ^^
> 
> the title is from the song ["slow dancing in the dark" by joji](https://open.spotify.com/track/0rKtyWc8bvkriBthvHKY8d). thank you to the kind soul who helped me figure out the title for this fic <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahh as mentioned in the tags, this was inspired by their outfits and masks at the golden disc awards.
> 
> just some **warnings** for inaccuracies (because i cannot find how fast a train can go back in the days so i stretched it to going around one side of the country) and for this being an impulse write so prepare your eyes!!

If someone asks Mingyu where his favorite spot to draw in the country is so far, he would say this one city that touches the ocean, one that dusts the long, straight roads with cherry blossom streams. The name slips off his tongue, this being his very first time in this city, but not the people he gets paid to draw. The name of the city slips off his tongue because after finding out their last night's train wasn't meant for Seoul, he decided to step off and explore into this one.

He sets himself up under a cherry blossom tree, props his sign on the grass and the roots. Besides the bridge, besides some stalls, he greets the grandmothers under the stalls before he sits on the grass and leans back. _5-Minute Drawings 250 ₩ Each_ in cardboard and thick-letting glory, crooked and trailing off to the top corner.

It doesn't show in his sign, a hint of his art style or the end-product of those five minutes. He never shows samples of his art. Because once people know how he works with his charcoal, they will decide if they want a bite at it or not. At least this way, he allows their curiosity to come to him. Once he tucks the money into the breast pocket of his jacket, he'll be glad to draw the couple standing at the bridge or the child hopping to reach the lowest branch or the grandmother under the tarpaulin overhang, packing cherry blossom buns into a white box.

Charcoal between pinched fingers, his hand slips on a glove of gray and ash and in need of a new sketchbook soon. With more foot traffic and extra change in pockets than what he's used to, his anxiety consumes his knee and shakes under the sketchbook. He hopes he has enough pages and charcoal to last him a day or two.

After tearing a page out from his thinning sketchbook, he hands his finished work to the old man in the pristine suit. The wrinkles around his eyes aren't due to his age. In his years of drawing, he learned to differentiate the lines of worry, the adding of years, and pure amusement. The old man's cheeks bud to make room for the grin, his eyes curving up to save enough space for the hearty laugh that throws his head back.

The old man faces the drawing towards him and points at the charcoal drawing. "This should be up in an art museum, kid."

The drawing is merely his observation of the man in the few minutes between the coins into his hands and the man stabbing his cane on the sidewalk to steady himself before him. It starts off at the left, where the old man peers up to the cherry blossoms floating past him, blends off to the façade of his tough mannerisms and wise life lessons ebbing away at the petal stuck to his graying beard. The last one in the frames is the old man planting his palm flat on his round belly and leaning back a slight to free his laughter into the world, deep and full of every gram of that moment's joy. All in one page, the shift of the man's demeanor from the cold-stone glare he first offers to Mingyu and the moment before the old man steadies his cane on uncertain grass between Mingyu's stretched-out leg. The old man crouches down to his eye-level and holds out a couple green bills and a narrow slip of paper.

"Sir, I think you read the sign wrong." Mingyu helps the man back up to his feet, hands anchoring at the old man's elbows. He thanks him for the generous payment, tells him that a drawing of his cost a little over a couple hundred each, not a couple hundred _thousand_.

The man shakes off his words, though, "This is priceless, kid. It's the least I can do."

After attempting to thank him by the won, the man says he has to go now, that he has to find a frame for this back home. But first, he'll stop by a stationary store to find an envelope and cherish this protected during his travels back. After bidding the man safe travels and sitting back down at the trunk of the tree, he tucks the two green bills into his breast pocket again, buttons it secure, but he keeps the glossy slip of paper between his fingers.

The ink smears more than the charcoal in his hands and when he pats them dry and pink on his jeans, he turns his cardboard sign backwards to advertise to the tree only.

The train ticket in his hand can bring him to Seoul. A calendar's jump will bring him there, but the price of this is a simple round-trip around the country before reaching the capital.

Hands jump onto his shoulders more than the jump start at his heart. A palm over his chest, smothering the ticket into his inside pocket, he huffs in a breath and groans when he catches Jeonghan's evil grin emerging from his periphery.

"Can you stop doing that?" is more of a joke at Mingyu's lips.

But he loves Jeonghan like a family of his own. If he was asked to talk about his family, life threw him an occasion or five in which he almost listed Jeonghan as his older brother. Jeonghan is the one who told Mingyu to continue this kind of life if he enjoys it, if it's something that gets him waking up in the morning and tucking himself to bed with his heart satiated for another round the next day. He nodded at Jeonghan's words because he really does like this life--the traveling, meeting new people with the simple foundation of drawing and nothing else, uncertainty of finding his ways home, and the need that he might not to. Not this time. Not now. Not any time soon.

He's been to nine cities and all cities had Jeonghan by his side.

"I saw there's a train coming here tonight," Jeonghan starts, plopping himself besides him and leaning up against the tree. He helps gather Mingyu's charcoal back into the tin container, brush grass of the ones that skyrocketed off his lap in the fright. He knows he should tell Jeonghan about the ticket, but he doesn't have the heart to tell them that he was given only one.

The tin container is an old thing he picked up in Jeonghan's old home and the older said he could keep it for himself, since it has always been empty, anyway. It's an old thing he never wanted to leave behind. Its hinges squeak every time he opens to grab his charcoal or return them, but he can't go a day without hearing it.

"It's going to Seoul and I thought, maybe we can sneak in there." Jeonghan looks up to him, a glint in his eyes that forewarns him of a possible plan written by mischief. "We can pretend to bring in heavy luggage or push carts in or whatever."

He shrugs, agrees without a heartbeat's passing. It's not their first time doing this and he knows it won't be their last. After all, he's been to nine cities with Jeonghan by train. And after all, he has never bought a single train ticket his entire life.

Before dusk shreds the city off sunlight, he has ripped maybe ten or so pages from his sketchbook but with the old man's payment, he would have thought he needed to run to the art store for a second or third sketchbook already. They sit on the benches at the train station. He counts the bills and coins in his hands as Jeonghan counts his pay for today beside him. Jeonghan's shoulder knocks into his at the bare whisper of the numbers through, and he returns it with a slightly harder bump back.

Once Jeonghan spells out three thousand, Mingyu fans out the two green bills and offers one out to Jeonghan. The older balks, lips parting but no sound escaping. Jeonghan points at the 10,000-won bill, lips turned up into possible forgery. "How did you get this?"

Mingyu shrugs, digs his fingertips into Jeonghan's closed palm to break his fingers open and add it onto the clattering coins and crumpled bill already there. "An old rich man said my art should be in museums, so he gave me this."

From the bench, they watch the number of passengers dwindle but the cloud of car attendants still rushing around and back.

"So if Chan has extra uniforms and he could let us into the office at the second floor, we could pretend to haul in the ingredients." Jeonghan then points at the passenger with a purple collared shirt, helping the car attendant push a long box into door, throws out the idea of pretending to be a passenger like that guy. "Or you can pretend to be the box."

He suppresses the snort, refuses to give Jeonghan the validation of his humor this once, and punches him light at the shoulder. It barely grazes his jacket, but he presses a palm to his chest, feigns the pain of either heartbreak or a gunshot. "Just because I'm tall?"

"Exactly, just like the box."

Once the area empties out, more so at nighttime than the day, a familiar figure passes under the windows of the second-to-last train car and deeper into the car.

Mingyu thinks they don't need to pretend this time.

He stands up, nearly drops his tin and sketchbooks on the floor. His hand wanders behind him in the air until Jeonghan slips his hand through, between his "Hey, I see Minghao in there" and Jeonghan's "Maybe we can let us in."

Minghao used to be the only third in their small group. After frustrating nights and slipping into bed without touching his notebook, he gave up their shenanigans around the country. Mingyu pitied the times when he couldn't even bring himself to step outside or even draw the branch tapping at the window across the room. They never blamed Minghao, never said he needed to apologize for it. This cross-country and drawing life brings joy into Jeonghan and Mingyu in a way that it can't reach to Minghao, and they get that. He remembers Jeonghan telling him to trial-and-error to find what makes him happy.

From below the window, Mingyu waves at the glass, at Minghao who gestures their way around the train car, where city asphalt can't touch nature just yet. The grass tickles at his ankles and his hand flies to Jeonghan's shoulder when the toe of his shoe nails the track. A prop of the emergency window up, MInghao holds out his hand towards Mingyu first.

Mingyu raises his hand up, a rush of adrenaline up his lungs and to his palms against Minghao's. His long-lost friend heaves him. When the soles of his feet free themselves in the air, something flattens under his shoe and he looks back to Jeonghan pushing his weight up from that one foot.

Minghao grunts from the weight and his attempts to slip him between the glass and metal with no shards nor paint chips, "Come on, there are some cabins open."

And with Mingyu sprawling his way inside, he lies flat on the floor, arms out and breathing heavy. Pockets of bright lights swing above him and when he blinks the sweat away from his eyelashes, he wonders if a chandelier is supposed to swing like that. Breathing in the humidified air and the sound of aerosol sprays sheet his lungs in luxury he doesn't deserve.

With Minghao holding out at the window, the slow patter of oncoming footsteps hurries him back to the window. He hears him curse, the first time in his life to hear so, and it pains something in his heart. But it's not the worst thing he heard in his life.

The worst thing he heard in his life are Jeonghan's sigh of defeat and Jeonghan's "Go without me, guys. I'll be fine."

Mingyu bolts the emergency window wider and leans over the edge, reaches out to Jeonghan. His palms slap onto the side of the train car, the trim of the window digging into his stomach. It burns his guts, it burns his lungs, but his hands burn when Jeonghan wiggles Minghao's hands off and refuses to hold onto his. Mingyu continues to latch onto him, cotton and shallow skin keeping him from losing it. "No, you have to come, Jeonghan," Mingyu begs, voice cracking all at once. "The three of us can go to Seoul again."

He watches Minghao's hand loosen Jeonghan's wrists when there's a grip at his jacket and Minghao pulls him back inside.

He can't go to his tenth city without Jeonghan.

"Go before Minghao gets in trouble," Jeonghan warns him as he hangs a little more than a tiptoe's way from the ground, smile too relaxed for his first time exploring a city without one or the other since this all started. Jeonghan shakes their hands off, a "Meet me in Seoul with that new sketchbook," and Mingyu lets go.

With Jeonghan's feet flat on the pebbles, Minghao hauls Mingyu into the train cart with a sore at his guts and a strain at his shoulders. Minghao instructs him to go to the first cabin on the right, his own cabin, and to stay there until he comes in. With the door handle wriggling open, he hurries into Minghao's cabin and shuts the door. He closes off the window curtains, draws himself steady breaths until he can hear the beats of his heart and the whistle of the train. He waits for footsteps to fade off before thoughts sink him to the floor.

His first city without Jeonghan smears a sting at his eyes and he wipes at them, can't stop his lips from unhinging for the sob and the hiccup for air. If Jeonghan was here with him, he would hug him, tell him to let it all out. He crawls his way to the bed, stops at the edge, and sits there. If Jeonghan was here with him, he would dust his palms and tell him to sit on the bed. He curls up into himself, props his chin at his knees, and he prays that Jeonghan will be okay. If Jeonghan was here with him, he would tell him that they will be okay.

An hour or two passes for a knock on the door. His eyes tire out from keeping them open, and he barely deciphers Minghao's figure in the dark. When Minghao closes the door behind him, he stands up, the first time to do so since he rushed inside, and pulls his old friend into an embrace of hundreds of days.

"We'll see Jeonghan in Seoul, Mingyu," Minghao assures him with the words, along with a run of his fingers over the back of his neck, through his hair. His thumb rubs at the skin under his hairline, soothing as always. Mingyu pulls himself back, but palms at his face stop him from stepping away. Minghao drags his thumbs under his eyes, nods at him once. Mingyu tilts his head down. "Jeonghan didn't forget this, though."

He whimpers for the hands falling from his face, chill at his skin stinging the streams of tears. Minghao pokes a familiar corner at his chest. His eyes clutch onto his tin on his sketchbook. His throat locks up for his best friend. He finds no way in keeping himself upright at how he won't know where Jeonghan will be by the time he reaches Seoul. He might not even be in Seoul, like he promised.

Mingyu lives off the night with Minghao slipping in plates of foot into his cabin and a "When you're done, just put it under my bed." Just warm bread, a little cold because Minghao needed to wait until everyone in the chef's car finished handing out to the passengers and other staff. A glass bottle of cola, sweet at his tongue but bitter all the way down. Jeonghan would have loved to drink soda from the glass.

With not many people coming in from this unnamed city, supposedly the first stop around the country, Minghao comes back not too long after to pick up the first plate. The train is going to depart for Busan and make its way around the east, trace north all the way to Seoul, Minghao informs him, "So we pretty much have the entire train car to ourselves til the next stop."

"When's that?"

"Tomorrow morning."

It takes another hour for Minghao to knock some sense into him, to keep his breathing and his heartbeat from rushing into anxiety and dread of Jeonghan's whereabouts. Minghao guides him to sit at the bed, and Minghao chuckles at the fact that Mingyu's life hasn't changed much, but his definitely did.

"How long have you been an attendant?" Mingyu ask, holds a glass bottle at the bed's metal edge and whips his hand down and away, watches the bottle cap pop off and roll on the floor. He hands it to Minghao.

After one deep swig of the soda, Minghao sighs the carbonated bubbles off his lips and sighs at the sugar overflow. "Jeonghan helped me find this job when I told him I wanted to try something else."

Mingyu blinks, salvages that conversation to this day. It was one of those rare occurrences where they discovered themselves in Mingyu's hometown, there to split off some earnings to his parents and for his parents to see Jeonghan and Minghao again after so long. The two huddled in Mingyu's room, shut the door. And when he came in, Jeonghan and Minghao sat tense at the edge of his bed and his eyes went straight for Minghao's two hands in Jeonghan's, thumb prodding in circles there.

"That was a long time ago," Mingyu notes into a whisper.

Perhaps by now, it's been two years already.

A clap on his back, Mingyu doesn't let it startle him. He knows they should probably drop the conversation and the topic all at once, that it doesn't have to scrape anything more than the surfaces of now. Especially when Minghao drags his fingertip under his eye again, mentions, "You look exhausted."

He doesn't even doubt if it's okay when Minghao offers him his extra uniform to play off working here better, that he's allowed to be in this cabin, as if he didn't sneak into the train through the emergency window in the first place. They' stand similar in stature; the uniform will be just enough. A plush white towel and another clap at his shoulder, Minghao tells him about the plethora of shampoo and soap waiting for him at the end of the hall.

Minghao grins, "Guess which one I use," and Mingyu does, too, though just a slight.

When the lights flick on, Mingyu blinks at the sink mirror reaching to the ceiling. The porcelain of the sink extends from one short side of the bathroom to the door, enough to display racks and racks of shampoo bottles and unopened soap bars. He locks the door behind him and scans each bottle--scents labelled from rose to vanilla, peppermint to mocha, oranges and coconut, musk and ocean breeze.

He picks one of the light purple bottles and soap bars because lavender sounds kind to his skin and hair. With a shower at his wake, his eyes don't run as tired and puffed as before, clinging onto Minghao's words like they're the last things he has.

Instead of slipping into a slumber like Minghao on his bed, he picks up his sketchbook and tin and closes the door to an almost mute click. He decides to wander around this car, just like the other car attendant filing away to the bathroom with a towel and a set of pajamas.

He stands at the random counter at the end of the cabins, besides the door to the next car. The counter walls off to protect the refrigerator there, humming with the urge to open it up. Another rack of bottles at the counter, Mingyu recognizes the maroon foils and green bottles, wonders who needs so much wine when here are very few attendants in this particular car. With his sketchbook and tin on the counter, he picks up a bottle, scowls a slight at the alphabet punch in a language unfamiliar to him. Whatever this _Chateau Mouton_ is, he's sure anyone with expensive taste will find it worthwhile to pronounce.

Maybe he can draw the wine bottles at the racks or turn around and capture the moon casting a protective glow across the skyline. When he's about to emerge from the counter and the hallway, a hand at the curving edge of the fridge stops him, along with the man donning circular glasses and a tussle of his hair, book in his other hand.

When the man apologizes, he admits he can't sleep because of his late-night hunger. The man's eyes drift down to the sketchbook in his hand and he supposes, "I'm guessing you can't, either?" Mingyu swallows down the refusal of words down his throat and nods, neck rusty for some reason. The man chuckles at it, though, and asks if he wants to join him.

A word fails to answer the man, let alone parting his lips or one. When the man pulls small cartons of milk from the fridge, he trails along behind him out the hallway and towards the opposite end of the train car. A whip of midnight at his eyes and a clutch of his belongings to himself, he follows the man into the next train car. The man leads him towards a wooden table under the window, bare of any silverware or tablecloth. The table soaks up midnight whole with the wide window above it.

A rough grind of the chair against wood, the man introduces himself as Wonwoo and supplies an "I can never sleep in a moving train, so I read."

Mingyu just nods. Of all his train rides, he has never been brought over like this. He's afraid to brush a digit across the table, the fortune it must have cost, but the palm up and across the table tells him to take a seat. He shifts in his seat at the discomfort of sitting in a train with another passenger, besides Jeonghan and Minghao. It feels even more awkward that he doesn't have a ticket, that shouldn't be having this conversation with this man.

He scratches the back of his head, murmurs out a quiet alibi, "My name is Mingyu. And it's my first time working in one."

Wonwoo smirks, a tinge of evil at the corner of his lips and at his eyes. "Maybe you'll be able to sleep once you've worked in one long enough."

He weighs the probability, if he should step off the train at the next stop or if he wants to continue his journey. A question about himself, Wonwoo wait for an answer, doesn't pipe up for him to spit something out. His fingers lay gentle across the worn cover, a hardcover diminishing close to paperback with the years.

"I like to draw people," is all Mingyu can say the moment he lifts his eyes up to the sharp of the moon at his glasses, that evil smirk from earlier sinking down to patient eyes. It's all he offers because he thinks his time is worth better spent if he draws the way the windows allow Wonwoo's countenance to bathe in shadows and moonlight. A much lovelier sight than the wine bottles.

His eyes flicker up as Wonwoo continues on, breaks his thoughts and the reverie of a perfect drawing. "Are you going to draw to pass time? This route goes around part of the country, and it'll take a week to reach Seoul."

He wracks his brain for words, to work out something coherent at the bare minimum because in the span of five minutes he's acknowledged Wonwoo's existence, all he knows is that Wonwoo is stilled grace at every centimeter.

But all that leaves his lips is a "Do you mind if I draw you?"

He watches short eyelashes curling up and fluttering in speculation, how hard it might be to capture the lighter ends because his charcoal hasn't thinned out enough. He notes how one eye is slightly wider than the other, a kind of asymmetry that falls into endearing when Wonwoo blinks blank and flusters hard at his question. A crooked smile and a nervous chuckle, the moon struggles to brandish the pink at his cheeks. Wonwoo sinks into his seat quiet, fingers clutching onto his book tighter.

He must have figured out he's serious about it.

Wonwoo scans all over his face, all seriousness progressing him a year or so in the minutes he's spent with him. "There's nothing special about my face, though."

Mingyu shakes his head, and the words he wishes to say lodge in his throat.

Wonwoo stares him down, and he knows it's supposed to mean surrender his wishes. But he keeps quiet. A deep breath, Mingyu's heart drops the weight in his chest when he hears, "Fine, go ahead."

He flips open his sketchbook across the table at the brink of a papercut he never did before. He opens his tin, excitement to draw surging in the form of nearly dropping all his charcoal across the table and floor. He picks out the thinnest tip, runs a hand over the page, and looks up. He should start a guide of outlines, how broad Wonwoo's shoulders and how far he has to drag the stick over the page, but he can't help but note how Wonwoo's eyes don't abandon his. Wonwoo's eyes scrape everywhere in the shape of him, as if Wonwoo is the one studying him, as if Wonwoo is the one _drawing him_. Rarely has anyone stare at him as he draws.

When it comes to blank page and ready charcoal in his hands, it's usually him having to stare someone down to get all the details into something deeper than the back of his eyelids. He's the one who imprints the hooks at the ends of their hair. He's the one who balances the shades of skin against beauty marks here and there, where the light shines over their face and dots their eyes. He's the one to distinguish if the lines around their eyes are from a smile about their days or worry dragging since years ago.

The only time Mingyu hates to draw is when his hands begin to perspire, threaten to damage the pages with a minuscule drop. He might need a paper towel to stop his sweat from staining his sketchbook or ruin his charcoal. He coughs into his fist to make a sound, a distraction from the typical. He tells Wonwoo he can go ahead and read his book or something and "Just pretend I'm not here."

A pause in the air, just the rolling along tracks and the occasional snore battling through the walls and hours, Wonwoo lets the words sink. After a swipe of his tongue over his lips, he nods, picks up the book, and traces a finger to the bookmark poking out, to the first page of the novel.

His eyes wear him out, so much so that each stroke of the tip against the page slows down by each blink of his eye. By now, Wonwoo speeds the story and doesn't seem to want to stop at a third of the way through the thick novel. It's a feat he wants to delve into the secrets of, but he scratches his eyes, drags down the inner corner for the tear forming there at his yawn.

"I'm not done with your drawing," he begins uncertain at his voice. If he was wandering lost into a city, sign propped up beside him, he would have gone through fifteen pages in the same amount of time he spent on this single page of Wonwoo, Wonwoo, and Wonwoo. He tries not to let the disappointment seep into the words when he says he'll finish it when he can.

Wonwoo tilts his head up, slots the bookmark where he left off, and closes the book. When Mingyu scratches his eyes, he chuckles, "You have charcoal at your eyes."

Mingyu groans. He lets his muscles give way enough to slump into the backrest. It always happens; not a day goes by in which he touched charcoal with his hands and left his face without a smear.

"I'll wash it off and go to bed" is a goodnight that Wonwoo seems to accept.

He picks it up only because Wonwoo nods again and bids him a "Goodnight, Mingyu" on his way to the train car's door.

After washing the smear at his eyelids, he fixes his spot to sleep on the floor besides Minghao's bed. Covers, a pillow, and a blanket Minghao brought in earlier, Mingyu hopes he washed off all the charcoal. He hopes that in the morning, nothing gray stains the white.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if something sounds oddly familiar, it might be the fact that i loosely based mingyu off of jack from the titanic, mostly how jack traveled around with his friend and drew portraits  
> as always, i'm on [tumblr](http://seokmins-thighs.tumblr.com), [twitter](https://twitter.com/_miniinfinity), or [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/miniinfinity)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a while but that's what school and self-doubt does to a person. i hope you're all doing well and keeping yourselves safe and healthy!!
> 
> some **warnings:** i guess mentions of alcoholic drinks but no actual drinking. and mayhaps my writing in general lmao

The following morning, his eyes drag him deeper into the blankets. He scratches his scalp at morning bugging him there and props himself up on his elbows. The world stills in black and night under his eyelids with shut curtains and shadows from the hallway bleeding onto the door. Bustles of early hours wash the cabin up in white noise and strikes of metal, whips of bedsheets, pillowcases and the first routine chatters of the day right outside the door. A shuffle of the covers and slide against wooden floors, the pat across his cheek tells him to lower himself back over the pillow and to return to his chase for slumber.

“Sleep as much as you need to,” Minghao’s voice saunters serene into his ears. His thumb latches onto the curve behind his ear, and he rubs the spot with his fingertip. Memories of a thousand nights ago rush back to him, and he stops himself from pulling Minghao under his arms to accompany some more hours with sleep, like he used to do. “I have to start the day early before the next stop.”

Mingyu screws his eyes shut even more against the lamplight and sinks his face back into the plush, doesn’t let the groan go unheard through it. Some steps around him, edging towards the chair where they draped their towels, Minghao tells him to sleep on his bed next time and “Don’t be a stranger, Mingyu.”

“Like before?” he mumbles through his dry lips sticking together.

Like before Minghao parted ways from him and Jeonghan? Like before, when the world ran a circus with just the three of them parading around the country without a care? Unlike before, when Jeonghan nestled between them across the single mattress sometimes; something-something about the oldest protecting both of the younger ones even in their sleep. They never piqued a question or doubt about it, not when Jeonghan really is the oldest. Not when the hotels they sneaked into would give them two blankets, and Jeonghan always slept with his arms crossed to battle the cold.

“Like before,” is almost the beginning of a dream he refuses to let go of, and the touch of the past disappears from his face.

Something pointy swipes its way from the heel of his foot to his toes, and instincts in him jerk his leg from the tickle too soon for his conscience’s rousing. He whines, a bit irritated at the physical strain before the mental one of rising up in the morning. He hears Minghao snort through his nose, and he just _knows_ he’s enjoying this. Countless mornings in which Minghao woke him up this way while Jeonghan headed out of hotel perimeters to buy them breakfast. Minghao always dragged a finger up along the flat of his foot until he finally rolled off the bed or showed the slightest signs of awareness. It was another reason why Jeonghan had to sleep between them.

He sighs, sits up on the floor, and blindly gathers his blanket and pillow under his arms. He walks on his knees until his waist hits the edge of the bed, and he crawls right into the warm spot Minghao left behind. The sore at his stomach from leaning over the edge of the train faded off long into his sleep, he notices. Once on the bed, abandoning the blankets’ purpose of covering everything below his waist, he pulls Minghao’s pillow to his chest just as steps patter and another layer of blankets cascades from the tips of his toes to the slope of his shoulders.

A hand at his cheek, a second pat into the brighter hours of the day, Minghao says he’ll bring food inside whenever he gets the chance. Mingyu nods against the pillow with his eyes shut and wishes him good luck for what the work day awaits for him.

When he startles into a second morning, well into the afternoon is what the clock tells him, fuzzy outlines of Minghao poke in and alarm him of Wonwoo asking to eat breakfast with him in the next car over, the one housing his cabin. At the words _Wonwoo_ and _with him_ , a rush of his heart throws the sheets off and stumbles for his bath towel against the backrest of the chair. He should brush his teeth at least, or wash his face before anyone other than Minghao has to confront the desire of night all over his being.

Two hands advising him to calm down, Minghao tries to pinch off the corners of his smirk invisible, almost as if asking what the rush is for without the question mark. “He just woke up, too,” Minghao explains, and he doubts that it’s meant to lighten the burden of seeing Wonwoo so soon after rising. And it doesn’t. He doesn’t want to embarrass himself, not even a full day after meeting Wonwoo. “Messy hair and everything.”

“Says the one in uniform,” Mingyu grumbles, jabbing an accusatory digit right at his chest, close to that golden name-tag. “And all washed-up and hair combed and everything I’m not.”

After urging Minghao to let him borrow his comb, the slightest thing he can do to make himself seem presentable, he watches his best friend suppress the second bout of laughter at him today. Out of habit, Mingyu lifts a fist and smacks a feather at the shoulder of his pristine uniform, not even brushing a crease when the fabric pops back up.

The threatening “Shut up” dissolves the danger and the hurt when his throat locks up from sleep at the two words barely halfway out. He steals Minghao’s slippers this once, scratching at his eyes, and heads over to the next car over.

“I’m glad I’m not the only one who says good morning at three in the afternoon” welcomes as a morning greeting from Wonwoo the moment he pushes the next car’s door open. Porcelain plates set out already, tablecloths and utensils mirroring across both ends of midnight’s table in sharp precision. He blinks at the man he saw in the hallway last night. Placing a champagne bucket in the middle of the table, the man is all upward curves of his eyes in every smile, contagious brightness at every step he takes.

Wonwoo yawns into his fist and waves off the hints of alcohol, thanks the man, anyway, “Maybe later, Seokmin.”

Seokmin nods his head down once before picking the bucket back up and winding his way towards Mingyu. In passing, he gestures for Mingyu to sit down at the table with his palm up before leaving for the car opposite of the one he came from.

Mingyu spectates the other car attendants arranging plates of food, cups, and racks all at once, busy yet orchestrated, the smallest details with the droplets of water capturing his attention as not one but three attendants reach for a towel from the cart to wipe it off. Cacophonies of “Eat a lot, Wonwoo” and slices of stainless steel, Wonwoo’s “How was your morning, Yoonjeong?” and the supposed Yoonjeong patting a motherly hand on his shoulder, answering by asking him why he woke up so late. All in the while, he picks up Wonwoo mimicking Seokmin’s same gesture of sitting down with his palm up and towards the seat across the table, right at Mingyu’s side.

He traces Wonwoo’s face and how not even the disturbance of sleep stops him from looking too different from last night.

 _Two different drawings_ , he tells himself when he lands at the puff at his eyes and the way his lips pout at Yoonjeong scolding him for sleeping late into the night. _The same amount of detail_ , when he notes his glasses a little crooked and hair in a shock of the post-morning. The need to thin out the tips of his charcoal blooms the heat at his cheeks when the hem of Wonwoo’s shirt gives permission for his collarbone to poke through. The rasp in his voice sends the chaos of attendants and entropy of the peaceful fields outside snapping when he asks Mingyu if he managed to get some sleep last night.

It’s a mental whiplash hearing his voice this way, and he falters through his nod as he sits down at the chair, expensive wood carving into the curves of his forearms. An attendant behind him proffers to push his seat inwards and after curt strings of thank you’s, discomfort settles into his chest. He thinks it’s odd to sit on something that costs more than his own life, unsettling at the most, but Wonwoo doesn’t seem to mind as he frees out a light laugh into the hours. Yoonjeong returns with a small mirror and allows Wonwoo to steal a glance at his reflection.

It’s a catharsis in his chest when the laugh frees itself between the walls of the car. And Mingyu catches himself smiling along, too. He sets his elbow on the armrest and folds his fingers over his lips to conceal it.

When he finally bounces the question of the day back to him, Wonwoo shrugs, leftovers of his reflection lingering at his lips. Mingyu ponders how thin he has to shred his blending stick to ensure the stark shades of his lips and pale skin won’t breach into one another. “I slept okay. I couldn’t sleep the entire time, though.”

The smile free falls from his face all at once, that Wonwoo couldn’t sleep well even when they escorted the train tracks to the moon. He silently wishes he’ll be able to sleep later tonight.

Another question prods at the anxious seam of his teeth, burns the tip of his tongue for an answer. He digs for a reason as to why Wonwoo asked him to eat breakfast with him. One scan around the table, he notices how the only seats at the table are already occupied by him and Wonwoo. With the other car attendants leaving the car, there are no signs of more chairs to add around the table to join them.

The question extinguishes into the smoke of Wonwoo’s voice, “Are people the only things you draw?”

Mingyu shrugs, runs his thumb over the smooth wood of the armrest. “It’s what people like to see.”

“Themselves?” Wonwoo confirms, his fork hanging midway for the plate of sliced fruit. A slight scowl upon hearing it correctly, he contemplates if Wonwoo has ever paid anyone to draw him. How many people would wish to draw someone like Wonwoo, the number must be close to infinity, and Mingyu is just another one adding onto the count.

He shrugs once more, tries to burrow his answer from the world, because his mind can’t conjure up a reply that might make sense. “I guess. I don’t know.”

The corner of Wonwoo’s lips rise, smirking almost. He wonders what it means.

Their late-lunch ends with Yoonjeong informing Wonwoo about his mother wanting to step off the train at Busan for a bit, to explore the city while the train loads passengers and luggage, food and fuel. Something hazes across Wonwoo’s eyes as he absorbs in their meal cut short, but Mingyu promises that it’s not a problem at all.

He tells Mingyu he would invite him if he could, but he’s sure he’s not allowed off the train, considering he’s an attendant and all. Mingyu thanks him for the thought, and says he should enjoy as much of Busan with his mother as he can. Even the mere thought of wanting to bring him along is enough to slap a smile on his face for the rest of their late-lunch together, to forget about sleep altogether.

He surrenders to nighttime, falling on the bed besides Minghao and letting familiarity course all under the sheets. Precursors of the sleep debt Wonwoo must be piling up, he doesn’t bother even a whisper to the next car over. He basks in the parted curtains for the night show, and the flip of the pillows to the other side of the bed. This way, when Minghao sinks his head at his arm and they stop toeing each other’s shins out of sheer reviving child’s play, they can watch the skylines merge into the stars and constellations disappearing into the previous city when they reach their hands up too late to connect them.

During that break in Busan, he learns Minghao stepped off the train to grab more uniform at the station after Seokmin spilled chocolate milk all over. He also learns that it’s not the first time Seokmin spilled chocolate milk on his uniform during this trip. In that short break, Minghao stumbled upon Jihoon at the station waiting for him and “Jeonghan stayed in his hotel last night. He’s on his way to Seungcheol’s.”

Two syllables of a thought nearly forgotten, his breaths following the news crumble under Minghao’s arms. An awful punch to his guts that he hasn’t offered even a musing about Jeonghan and where he can be at any given moment this entire day. It takes Minghao lying on his side to face Mingyu, dusting the tears off his eyes one by one, to steady his breathing once more.

“I told Jihoon to call Seungcheol when he gets back to his hotel. And when Jeonghan arrives in Daegu, he has to tell Jeonghan that you’re okay.”

He feels worse that Minghao’s lullabies of the night do nothing besides mock his sobs.

\----

Coaxing Mingyu out of bed and letting Minghao cold towel the pink all over his face are goals landing merely earshot of where he usually finds himself at this hour. Quiet, seemingly torturous “Jeonghan is okay, Mingyu. He’ll be okay when we see him again” amidst the palms against his face, Mingyu nods between the hands.

With the slightest of smiles clinging onto sun beams between the curtains they left open, Minghao pats his face gentle and asks, “Did you use the lavender one?” Prying his lips for a grin breaks the sores at his eyes and lethargy at his cheeks. Mingyu asks how he figured that out right away. “You always picked lavender at the mall.”

He needs more than his two hands to count the months since the last time they stepped foot into the mall together.

The day succumbs to a monotony that Mingyu can’t keep himself under for too long. When Minghao budges his shoulders for breakfast, Mingyu finds crawling out of bed and pushing himself off the mattress are much lighter tasks at his shoulders than he first thought. Trailing behind Minghao on the way to the bathroom, he tickles the exposed expanse of his neck with the corner of his bath towel.

They wash up like old times, Minghao shredding a beeline for the shower and Mingyu taking his time at the sink. It reminds him of those times where they hid away in empty hotel rooms owned by the people they know. A lot of their hotel stays happened with the help of Seungcheol in Daegu and Jihoon in Busan.

When they both rinse the toothpaste foam off their lips, Minghao must be thinking the same way as he bumps his hip against his. “We should tell Seungcheol to renovate his bathroom like this.”

Mingyu stores his toothbrush in its case and dabs his towel around his lips. He ruffles his wet hair, asks if he’s been able to see Seungcheol often doing this kind of job. He shakes his head, though, “even when this train stops at Daegu.”

Mingyu nods and lets the words sink in. He understands. It’s his job to not wander far in these hundreds of cities as the train itself wanders into hundreds of cities.

Minghao helps him into his extra set of uniform, lips scrunching off to the side when it comes to doing a necktie for someone other than himself. Mingyu fumbles with the buttons of his vest and the collar of his white pressed shirt, eyes falling onto the golden name-tag in front of him.

“I don’t have one of those,” Mingyu cautions, slips a hand over Minghao’s as he adjusts his tie into the brink of a chokehold.

Minghao quirks an eyebrow at him and shakes his hand off, shakes the worry off. “So? Seokmin next door lost his name-tag on his first day.”

As ten in the evening strikes down on the train, his shoulders scream from lifting luggage off for those departing here without stretching properly beforehand. A roll of his shoulders and Minghao massaging his arms later, his muscles ache less, well enough to pick up his sketchbook and charcoal. He heads for the next car over and decides to wait for Wonwoo there because perhaps, he, too, noticed that they haven’t seen each other the entire day. The table, bare of any remnants of their late-lunch, is pushed back against the car wall with all its chairs surrounding the brim.

Among the dark of the car and leftover moonlight waking up the page, he begins outlining the wine bottle he grabbed from the rack. With Wonwoo’s cabin not too far behind him, the silence breaks at the sound of the car door sliding open and so does the tranquility of the car. The screech jolts gritted teeth and a clasp at the armrest. He looks behind him, and the drop of his heart might be covered up from the beat of the tracks, only if it was Wonwoo at the door.

But instead, his heart might have been the screech of metal instead. The slim woman in a light pink nightgown stands before Wonwoo’s door. With moonlight grazing across her dress, he guesses her nightgown dons in silk and triple-zero price tags. He reminds himself to breathe when she lifts her hand up and knocks on the door with her knuckles. But regardless of a response from the other side, she slides the cabin door open and steps inside.

He shouldn’t delve in or even scrape at the surface of the situation. He barely knows Wonwoo and what goes on in his life. He wasn’t even supposed to _meet_ Wonwoo in the first place. But why can’t he turn back around, back to his drawing and away from the door?

He reminds himself that he’s known Wonwoo for only two days, and that alone forces him to return to his sketchbook and the wine bottle. Perhaps he can go back to his cabin with Minghao if Wonwoo is going to be occupied for the rest of night.

The bang on the ground, rattle of the floor under his feet, sends the charcoal under a hard press into the page and a merciless snap setting off between his fingers. Thumps ring at his ears, and he presumes the sound must be from Wonwoo’s cabin. Scratches of the chair legs don’t hit at his ears until he nearly knocks the entire seat back within the rush of it all.

When he raps at the door, a deep groan drowns in a string of pants. He slides the door open, anyway, tries to account for the woman on Wonwoo’s bed, blanket spread everywhere under her shoulders and covering up her silk nightgown. With Wonwoo at the floor of the bedside, his ribs dig into the edge of the bed frame, her hands hooked under his elbow in a tight grip across the mattress. Fingernails digging where his veins run, Wonwoo winces and tugs his arm back, only to have her tug him towards her even harder.

A second tug, another pained groan, Wonwoo whips her hands right off. Mingyu’s head runs in haywire as he pushes the door wide open and steps inside. He crouches before Wonwoo, watches her fingers loosen around his wrist. With a hand on his other arm, he helps Wonwoo up and leads him out to the other car in hopes that he can shake Minghao awake to help Wonwoo out and away from the woman.

In the other car, he lowers Wonwoo into a seat at the table there, smaller than the one in Wonwoo’s car. Careful at the steps and slow under his hands, he thinks no one else woke up to the sounds. Mingyu frees him and heads for the short fridge hidden under the cabinets and digs his way around the stashes of beer bottles and coffee cans. He grabs a can and wraps a thin towel around it. Kneeling before Wonwoo, he asks if lifting his arm up would be too much trouble for him in this state.

Wonwoo’s features pass a scowl off behind his glasses, but he lifts his arm up to perch at the armrest. Mingyu hesitates to bring the can to his side over his shirt, especially when he feels sorry at the sight of Wonwoo retracting from the cool surface with heavy breaths. After a second, a scan across Mingyu’s face, clamping his teeth together, Wonwoo moves himself closer to the can and lets the chill bathe his entire side with a long sigh.

“Who is she?” Mingyu treads.

Wonwoo’s eyes drain of thought, empty when they dance all over Mingyu, until he tilts his head down and off his line of periphery. The wordless tiptoes around them until Wonwoo lifts his free hand up, cool fingertips stroking Mingyu’s wrist. “Thank you, Mingyu.”

Words continue to trickle down between them, unlike their previous days. The only words that trespass the fence of silence are Mingyu asking if his side still hurts and the simple request of suspending his arm up as he switches for a colder can. After advising him that this is going to be his life for the next couple of days, Wonwoo’s voice voids out of what just happened when asks if he can go back to his cabin.

He walks Wonwoo to the next car over with a loosen arm around his waist, shudders of his breath keeping the quietude of the night and damage of what just happened alive. One check around the cabin and vacancy greets them with open arms. It’s the signal for him to drop his arm from Wonwoo’s waist and to open the door all the way.

Wonwoo takes a step forward but before he slips back inside, he turns back to Mingyu and dips his head down once. No goodnight, no other word before he enters his cabin and closes his door back shut.

That night, when he joins Minghao snoring in bed, he prays that his tossing and turning don’t wake his best friend up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can you tell that this fic is set before the 2000's :')  
>   
> also i thought [secrets by onerepublic](https://open.spotify.com/track/1NhPKVLsHhFUHIOZ32QnS2?si=6c8YBgunQoiVyoA5HRqI9A) would be fitting for this fic because i thought that was the mv where they did a masquerade party but no it's the other mv
> 
> anyway, i suck at social media nowadays but i'd still appreciate the screaming nonetheless at [tumblr](http://seokmins-thighs.tumblr.com), [twitter](https://twitter.com/_miniinfinity), or [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/miniinfinity) c:


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a while but i delved back into a song or two i associate with this fic so yeah c:
> 
> no **warnings** this time yEEE

With Minghao switching over to an afternoon shift for the day, their late breakfast in the cabin is punctuated with prolonged groans of frustration and searing nail curves into their scalps. These drawing guessing games they have yet forgotten about to this day never fail to charge a riot on tabletops or floorboards. Charcoal and pencil chips exploding all over the pages, kicks of blankets off the bed and breakfast nearly topping all over the floor. A defeated sigh simmering among the walls, Mingyu falls back on the mattress and accepts Minghao’s victory with his drawing of  _ Phoenix-Bot Phoenix King _ with his right hand.

“How can I forget that movie?” Minghao probes, crawling on the bed and lying beside him. Their arms slot against one another, fingertips tapping on the back of Mingyu’s palm. He opens his hand up, lets Minghao squeeze his hand twice.

“Jeonghan took us to watch it because he said we were babies,” Mingyu chuckles dry at the memory.

Minghao scans all over his face, a skeptic of the past. “I think  _ you  _ were the baby.”

They rob the task of changing the sheets together starting at three. Every door in every car with the sign requesting to do so summons the two of them inside. At the next car over, something in Mingyu has him hoping there’s a sign hanging off Wonwoo’s door handle. But the handle remains bare of one, and a quiet wish passes that Wonwoo is okay, not cooping himself up lonesome in there.

With passengers gone to explore the city but their suitcases under the bed, Minghao grumbles about clean sheets being requested for a new set. “What’s the point?” he lashes on, tucking fitted sheets into the corner. “It’s just a waste.”

Yanking out pillow cases, adding a couple more plushes after finding the whole note on the table, his thoughts poison him about the woman from last night and the likelihood of that same woman following Wonwoo around the city and grabbing onto his arm. The only look on his face throughout that time resembling pure disdain than a speck’s joy of having her company. Or perhaps Wonwoo genuinely enjoys her presence, and Mingyu is the one to ruin it all last night.

He whips out fresh covers, scent filling his nose pricey beyond his reach. Minghao drops his own complaints into clearing out his thoughts. “At this rate, you’re going to rip them.”

He could have brought Jeonghan in.

As he tidies up Minghao’s cabin, folding his clothes from his first day and polishing Minghao’s extra pair, the world rocks against him as he reads the ticket that slipped from his jacket pocket, along with the coins and bills he earned that same day.

He could have brought Jeonghan in.

He runs his thumb over the fine print of the ticket, the memory of the man offering it to him drifting past what weighs more like months ago. He scratches the ink, Jeonghan’s hands faint in his, but not strong enough to vandalize the piece, his failure in hauling Jeonghan through the window.

He could have brought Jeonghan in.

Fingernails scraping for the ink, he wants to know if this ticket stands a fraud and maybe bringing Jeonghan in would have been closer to impossible. Placating this what-could-have-been might be the only way he can sleep tonight.

“I could have brought Jeonghan in,” Mingyu’s voice wavers even when he whispers this to Minghao right beside him. His best friend drapes the sheets over their waists, offers his open arms to him, his open heart that never succumbs to anything less than that. Molding into the shape of his side, chin digging lower than his collarbone, Minghao brings him close to his chest, drags of his fingers through his hair and reassurances down the shell of his ear.

The curtains remain shut, and his lungs subside heavy into his chest, stays at the bottom and buries lower through his shallow breaths. Slow inhale, a wipe at his eye that Minghao reaches an odd angle to dust off, a shaky exhale when he lets his wishes of Jeonghan being okay rock the two of them to sleep.

\----

The second-to-last morning before Seoul arrives to him like a miracle. With Minghao patting the side of his thigh, chides him from getting up to sleep more, the weight in his chest ebbs away little by little. Between rolling in water bottles after meals in, after snacks in, even a glass bottle of soda, he sits by himself in the cabin with the comfort silence that Jeonghan is okay and is trekking his way to Seoul, just like the two of them.

Midnight also arrives to him like a miracle when he walks into the next car over, routine sketchbook and tin ready under the curls of his fingers by now. Expecting to turn to the left for the table, he blinks at the table seating footprints of chair legs, rather than actual chairs. A cassette player on the table billows into notes of unknown sophistication, orchestras shelled out of its crisp sounds and replaced with mere silhouettes of digital music. With the table under the window, Mingyu needs to get used to the moonlight abandoning them this time. Curtains drawn, locked against the world, the low light dims orange all over the car.

Away from the cassette player, Wonwoo stands at the center floor of the car, violins chanting to the beat but his feet hearing exactly none of it. He lifts one foot when the violin draws out a long note. Steps to the side after that note ends, then brings his other foot up as the cassette player switches to another song. Wonwoo takes himself back to where he began at the wrong times.

It’s futile to cover the snort out of his nose with the wall of his sketchbook, but he lifts the sketchbook up to his face, anyway, to conceal anywhere below his nose with aged leather and charcoal marks.

Wonwoo’s head whips around and the dimmed lights above barely affords the pink at his ears. But maybe Wonwoo will fume angry at him for watching, for smirking and snickering at something he shouldn’t have seen in the first place. Or maybe that one night will revive unwanted memories and something they can’t talk about. The latter trickles the smile out a fiber at a time, just until there’s nothing left of a smile that Mingyu needs to hide anymore, and it’s just the space that covers the two of them.

A scowl at his eyes but nothing vile thrown in his direction, Wonwoo admits he has to practice ballroom dancing and “I usually practice with my mom, but she’s asleep.”

He blinks at the sight, replays the words and gentle tone in his mind, that Wonwoo is no way mad at him, it seems. Picking out the new song playing this time, he scoffs at the subliminal request at his words. He turns around, back to the door, tucking his sketchbook and tin back to his side. His long limbs are better off at the borders of ballroom floors, closer to the tables or hidden away at the balcony, away from everyone else, away from where he isn’t supposed to be.

“You’re on your own,” Mingyu tosses over his shoulder.

“No-wait, Mingyu” the desperation stops him from clicking the door open. “Can you help me practice?”

“I never danced before,” he tries his luck again to leave. He slides the door back open, grits his teeth against gusts of wind nipping at his skin.

“You can learn to help me practice.” When Mingyu glances at him from the corner of his eye, there’s a bashfulness surrendering his features, something he would have never guessed belonged to the Wonwoo who invited him for a late meal not too long ago. Scratching the nerves at his neck, Wonwoo spills out, voice crawling back from the plummeting timbre he’s already grown accustomed to, “The attendants end up dancing there, anyway.”

With last night’s sleep lending him more hours than what he’s used to, he thinks he can blink a couple more hours away. He doesn’t have anything else better to do.

So he shuts the door back and steps up to Wonwoo.

Wonwoo scoffs, eyes rolling behind his glasses. “Do you think people ballroom dance this far away from each other?” Mingyu registers the unclosed distance, the tips of his slippers a wide step away from Wonwoo’s own fluffy pair. He smirks, swings his foot back, and takes a step farther away from Wonwoo, tracking back towards the door. Wonwoo scans all over his face, “Really?” all over the flat of his lips and defeated sag of his shoulders.

He steps forward until personal space becomes a stranger in each other’s conscience. Mingyu drops his eyes lower and if he leans in-

“Since you’re the taller one, you can spin me,” Wonwoo suggests.

Mingyu shrugs, leaning over to slide his sketchbook and tin on the table, right next to the cassette player, says anything is fine by him because “I really don’t know what to do.”

If Jeonghan was here, his muscles wouldn’t fail him this time, wouldn’t tense up this bad. Jeonghan has been through this play of soft hands along with the music and smooth glides all over the floor than he has. At least, if Jeonghan smiles at someone asking to dance with him, it doesn’t falter, not like how Mingyu stills from glancing up to Wonwoo’s eyes.

“I’m going to put my hand on your shoulder.” Mingyu nods just to respond, not exactly knowing what else he can do at this point. “Is that alright?” Mingyu nods once more and when he does, he steels himself from letting the touch tickle him, especially when Wonwoo’s fingers drum a line at his shoulders, above the playful grin on his lips. Wonwoo lifts his other hand up in the air, a hand’s reach away from his shoulder.

He slips his hand against Wonwoo’s and threads their digits together, Wonwoo’s cold fingertips meeting the warm junctions of his. He wonders why his hand threads so chill into his. Wonwoo tries to pinch the smile from his sight, but it fails when he untangles their clasp and instructs Mingyu to cup his fingers instead, serene curves of his eyes up as his lips do. “It’s like this, Mingyu” wanes in patient into his ears.

Mingyu waves his other hand in the air and Wonwoo trails his eyes up to his hand, throwing out that attempt from earlier when his smile grows even more from the corner of his lips. “Where do I put this hand, then?”

Wonwoo blinks back to eye-level, blank and returns that bashful self that Mingyu still has to understand a little more than now. “Oh, well, usually you put it on their rib, but…”

“Does it still hurt?” Wonwoo doesn’t lose sight of him when he nods, low lights refracting off the silver of his glasses. “Do you mind if I put my hand on your waist, instead?” escapes his thoughts before he ponders it all the way through. But Wonwoo tilts his head down once, brings it back up with a skitter of his eyes down.

He drops his hand at the same time he drops his heart, heartbeats loud at his ears but not in Wonwoo’s. When the tension at his palms give way at Wonwoo’s hip, he feels the exhale relaxing under his palm.

The music restarts, as if eavesdropping into their conversation, and they shed their jokes aside. Counting beats, hawking for mismatched steps along the way, and making sure their hands stay linked all in one, Mingyu thinks nothing confronted him with this much focus since he picked up a sketchbook.

Or so they thought at first.

When the cassette player pops back open, Wonwoo teases him that he stepped on his foot  _ thrice _ and never apologized for it, most-likely never noticed it at all. Mingyu only threatens to do it again.

But despite gaining confidence only in his clumsy grace, in the end, he’s more relieved his efforts are enough to earn Wonwoo’s nod of approval and an “If anyone asks to dance with you, just do that.”

Mingyu shrugs, eyes falling back to his feet. “I still don’t think I’ll dance there.”

“Are you saying I taught you for nothing?” sounds like a challenge, and he accepts it when one foot stomps in front of the other but never on top, and it startles the chase around the car.

With minimal space for child’s play, time hasn’t ticked too far and too long from them before Mingyu groans at his foot latching onto the table. The world whirs at his eyes and the crash of his bottom has him surrendering to the punch of wind out his lungs. He’s close to sitting up, dragging his elbows across the floor to do so, when Wonwoo comes to him. Worried hands flush against his face replace the rush of it all.

“Are you okay, Mingyu?” Wonwoo whispers, hushed and hurried.

Mingyu is used to it--the falling, tripping, his clumsiness all around. The unfazed skin and ache tell him to nod, remind him that he never answers his question.

Wonwoo lowers his head close to his to whisper something to his ear, he believes, so he waits for his words. A scolding for the damage or a teasing that his feet aren’t listening to where he wants to go, a forewarning of what can happen at the party in a few nights, or something in between.

He waits, but none of those words come. Instead, something presses close to his ear. He’s not sure what it is until Wonwoo tilts his head a slight, and the only thing his ears can pick up, besides the fact that the world cut them off their inhales, is the quiet sound of lips leaving his temple.

When Wonwoo moves himself back, he wonders why there are tears in his eyes.

Mingyu swallows hard and sits up with the help of Wonwoo’s hand at his shoulder. When he looks up, it might be the long hours ahead or the music drowning into a slower tune, the way Wonwoo hasn’t dropped his hand from his face or the realization his own hand rests on top of Wonwoo’s on the floor next to him, but something lost in all of them salvages enough courage to perch his fingers at Wonwoo’s chin, ask a low, “Can I?”

Wonwoo nods over his fingertips and when he pulls him closer, it’s an innocent press of lips there. Heat of Wonwoo’s cheeks brushing against his before they part for a second, no words, no sound outside of the jostle of the train car nor the cease of their breaths stop him from pulling him in once more and kissing him slow.

He falls for sighing into the kiss as a hand rakes up the back of his neck and another tugs into his shirt at his shoulder.

Mingyu’s mind relays the woman from the other night, welcomes in the guilty punch to his guts if there’s something between her and Wonwoo because this would be  _ wrong _ , and he’s just wrecking everything they have. He forms the question in his mind, but when he stops himself from delving into Wonwoo, when he pushes Wonwoo’s shoulders back just centimeters away, the only words that manage to trip into the world are “Is she?”

Wonwoo’s eyes latch onto something on his face. “No,” he whispers, barely shaking his head, “there’s nothing.”

The last words settle Wonwoo to sitting back, knees bent under him and his eyes refusing to touch anywhere that’s Mingyu. His voice dives lower, inaudible almost if they weren’t sitting so close to each other. “She means nothing to me.”

He mouths out a simple “Okay,” reaches up for Wonwoo once more, a wordless plea for another kiss.

After Wonwoo tries to stifle a yawn, they walk to Wonwoo’s cabin, his fingertip hooking onto one of his on their way. A quiet goodnight and tiptoes for a kiss at the corner of his lips, Mingyu can’t smother the smile off his face after Wonwoo slips into his cabin.

“What’s with you and Wonwoo?” Minghao pokes fun at him once he slides their cabin door open.

Mingyu doesn’t spare a word, only hopes that night is on his side more so than earlier and hides the blush at his own cheeks when he falls under the sheets next to Minghao.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading :') i'm somewhat still at [tumblr](http://seokmins-thighs.tumblr.com), [twitter](https://twitter.com/_miniinfinity), or [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/miniinfinity) if you want to...idk

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! i never said this before in my fics, but comments and kudos are appreciated c: or you can drop something by my [tumblr](http://seokmins-thighs.tumblr.com), [twitter](https://twitter.com/_miniinfinity), or [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/miniinfinity)


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